


There's an energy (when you hold me)

by winterysomnium



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: First Kiss, Getting Together, Keith is a bike nerd, Lotor is nice and Keith is shooketh, M/M, Milkshake Dates, keith's pov, poolboy AU, want me to tag anything else?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 07:38:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12452694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: Keith didn’t think this would be a part of it.





	There's an energy (when you hold me)

**Author's Note:**

> my hand slipped :'), title is a lyric from the song “Powerful” by Major Lazer feat. Ellie Goulding and Tarrus Riley, hope you enjoy

Keith didn’t think this would be a part of it. He was ready for the work, the sore muscles along his back and the off colour sunburn he got despite the sunscreen he put on himself dutifully every time, before every shift; he was even ready to zip his mouth and communicate in grunts and other, non verbal (non offending) sounds that wouldn’t get him fired (or sued).

He was even ready to ruin at least one of his t-shirts for this.

He just didn’t think – he didn’t think Lotor would be  _there_. He didn’t count on Lotor  _staring_  at him, from his soft, parasol blanketed solace of a lounge chair, sunglasses on, a pitcher of lemonade always (always) on the table beside him, icy cold; a visual contrast to the summer heat on Keith’s skin.

Sure, he’d thought Lotor would be there,  _somewhere_ , in his Father’s mansion, but Keith just hoped he wouldn’t be –  _right_ there. Following each of Keith’s movements, each of his sweaty stretches, each time he went out to the trash cans and back, for the  _whole_  of the day. Each day. Every time Keith’d turn he’d feel that prickle of someone’s look, that shiver he can’t measure the temperature of if he’d tried, and maybe, if he was a patient guy, maybe if he had a little more self preservation, he’d let it go, or at the least, he’d hold out for longer, just a little bit.

As it is, he holds out for two days and then he returns the stare with a glare, a suspicion saturated colour to his eyes, a pull to his mouth.

“Are you gonna keep staring at me all day?”he asks him and there’s a power struggle, already, unrelenting, a challenge settling between them as Lotor raises an eyebrow, as his mouth stirs under his smirk.

“What, do you charge extra for that?”he retaliates and it’s – it’s not what Keith thought he’d hear (once again).

_That prick._

“You know I don’t – what kind of an question is that?!” he answers, with a half of a yell tucked in there somewhere and fishes out the rest of the never-ending fall of the leaves, a trail of watery freckles dotting the ground underneath and if he taps the net a bit too violently against the tiles, he blames the unearthly smugness of Lotor’s whole existence, on principle.

And this, this tug of war between the spaces of their gravities, is just the start of it all.

—

Keith’s bike breaks down that night. It chews into its own motor with a whiny, low voice and won’t let it start, the smell of gasoline just a little nauseating after hours spent in the sun; Keith kicks at the gravel at his feet.

He lives miles away, at the forgotten wisps of the city, buried in the sandy deserts and he loves the trip, the quiet, the howl of noise and the following of dust he carries when he returns, to the last abandoned stretches of miles between him and the rest of the town but it means it’s a stupidly long walk, with little commute and even less people to get help from and just as his shoulders allow the defeat to sink in, for the first time, there’s him again, Lotor, standing at the other end of the driveway, staring, looking, again.

“Having some trouble?” he asks and Keith doesn’t need this, doesn’t need a rich kid rubbing in that Keith’s bike is a whole of its parts and the parts are old souls, barely working on hope and lots (lots) of repair, doesn’t need to justify himself to this guy, not right now, but –

“Apparently,” he answers, bitterly, takes the keys out of the ignition and the sinking sun dawns on him, lazily wraps around the soles of his shoes and illuminates Lotor’s skin, and Lotor doesn’t give in, doesn’t let Keith leave.

He offers him a ride.

He offers to help push Keith’s bike into their garages so it won’t get towed, he offers to drive him to his house and he doesn’t accept Keith’s “No thanks” and his “I don’t  _need_  the help.” and after he’s used his best excuses there’s no way to argue he can afford getting towed or let someone trash his baby, so begrudgingly, with a lot of reserve, Keith grips the clutch and flips the stand up, with the tips of his boot.

Lotor’s car smells nice.

It smells of leather, of being cared for, the radio’s on just right and there’s no conversation between them for the whole of the ride, besides Lotor asking for his address, asking if he’s not cold.

It’s … it’s not as bad. Lotor drives with confidence, an ease Keith likes, the seats comfortable enough to doze off in and for a moment, he forgets this is the two of them, people who don’t mix, who barely meet in front of the school.

In front of the house, Keith unlocks the front door, feels that shiver, that betraying ache; he faces the inside of Lotor’s car.

“Thanks,” he says, reluctantly and Lotor offers him a barely there, quite effortless smirk.

(It infuriates Keith enough to scowl at his home’s door, to reassure his thoughts.)

_There’s no way Lotor just did something nice._

_No. Way._

—

He’s offered a ride again, the next day.

Then, his bike gets driven home and on Friday night, somehow, they’re  – they’re on a date, Keith thinks.

It happens fast, happens because halfway through the city, Lotor says: “Let’s get a milkshake,” and look, Keith hasn’t had a good (or any, good or bad,  _honestly_ ) milkshake in  _months_ , the diner lights shining in letters that spell out Drink me and so no one can blame him for sliding into a booth right across Lotor, sucking at his own (his very own) chocolate peanut butter  milkshake in the biggest size there is and he offers to pay half but Lotor just looks offended, says: “I invited you so you saying that is just simply insulting,” and fair enough, Keith shrugs and races him on who can down their drink faster and somehow, they talk.

About Lotor’s car, then just cars, then bikes, then  _Keith’s_  bike, which is a topic Keith has little (none ) self restraint in and before he stops to realize, they’ve had a sensible, good,  _nice_ conversation about engines and the rims on their wheels for a good fifteen minutes.

When the milkshake’s gone and they’ve got soda instead Keith reminds himself he shouldn’t trust this guy, reminds himself that his Father has practically all of them in the palm of his (grubby) hands and creates nothing but trouble for Shiro, who’s the one person that doesn’t deserve any, if there’s one person in the world and in the middle of it all, in the very very core: Keith just can’t believe he’s finding himself feeling good in this guy’s company.

Lotor is – nice. He  _can_  be nice, genuinely, not to just his group of friends he invites to the pool for most of the week and not just with wanting something back, he can be – thoughtful.

(He can be someone who Keith could  _like_  and that’s a dangerous, catastrophic thought.)

Keith has noticed that he’s a good looking person. He’s known this, he’d recognized that Lotor’s face is nice, maybe not as traditionally, devastatingly handsome as Shiro’s, or as boyishly pretty as Lance’s or Hunk’s, but …  nice. Well constructed. Nicely done.  

It’s just – he didn’t want Lotor’s  _personality_  to be that as well.

Keith didn’t want  _Lotor_  to be nice and different from what he seemed to be (stuck up and backstabby) and it’s like he’s finding bruises on himself: it makes him feel vulnerable, tender, uncomfortable and so fragile he closes into himself, ruins the atmosphere they’ve talked themselves into, right there.

“What’s in this for you?” he asks him, at the end of it, when he’s leaning against the window of Lotor’s expensive, well loved car and there’s suddenly a chase, a look of something vulnerable, on Lotor’s face, too.

“Are you trying to insult me again?” he asks, tenses underneath all of the metal, the soft, worn leather of his jacket, of his unreadable mouth.

Keith just pulls tighter, tugs himself closer to his own core.

“I don’t know, am I?” he challenges and for a second, he thinks Lotor’s going to strand him, drive off, lock the doors.

“Just get in,” Lotor says, somewhat amused and Keith climbs into the seat, with hesitation, with something unraveling inside of his lungs.

They make out against the heated tilt of his bike sometime next week and kissing Lotor is … it’s fun. The most fun he’s had in  _months_ ; it’s something new, exhilarating, exhilarating the way driving is when he’s limitless, when it feels like he’s the only person left alive, Lotor’s shirt riding up against his and Keith’s still uncertain what to do, where to anchor his fingers, how to tell Lotor he doesn’t want to stop.

So he does what’s the easiest: fight with it. Fight  _for_  it, grasping at the front of Lotor’s jacket, pulling him back when he leans away, with a tug strong enough make their mouths collide, their teeth press.  

It’s even worth tasting that pleased, smug curl on Lotor’s lips.

(It’s worth at least two of those, for sure.)


End file.
